I remember the first Monday after I stopped going to the East Bank Regional Library. I woke at 6:12 a.m. anyway, because my body keeps time like an old wall clock. I checked the weather app, made coffee and listened to WWNO low enough that it felt like company without asking anything from me.
Beignet sat by the back door with that patient look dogs do so well. I clipped her leash, the same click I have heard every morning since June 2020 and we drove to Lafreniere Park. The air already had that Metairie humidity I call soup weather, even though it was early. We did our loop, paused at the same bench and I realized nobody needed a laminated schedule from me anymore.
Back home, the house felt extra organized, which is my specialty. Library tote bags hung from the same two hooks. A magnet clip held three overlapping grocery lists, because I like options even when I pretend I do not. My study was waiting, neat as a photo and the quiet in there had weight.
I sat at my desk and looked at my old name badge in its little frame. For four decades, people called me “brilliant” like it was a compliment and a job description at the same time. I felt proud of it and I also felt trapped by it. In that chair, alone, I noticed the habit I carried into my own family, the habit of making myself smaller so everyone else could relax.
If you have ever been the one who “handles things,” you know how the quiet can feel like a test. You start scanning your life for a problem to solve. My knee, the mild arthritis one, gave me a little warning twinge when a storm front was coming and I almost welcomed it. Pain has a clear instruction.
Then I did something that surprised me. I left the study and wiped the kitchen counter too thoroughly, like I was polishing a feeling away. Danny called out, “You all right, Lou?” and I said my usual, “I’m fine.” I meant, “Please ask one more question.”
1. The first quiet morning in my study
I remember when retirement sounded like a long exhale. I retired on February 1, 2021 and I pictured slow mornings, books stacked beside my reading chair and fewer urgent questions. The reality came with empty space. Space looks peaceful until your mind starts pacing inside it.
In that first quiet morning, I opened a drawer and found a stack of old circulation notes. Coffee rings, pencil marks, little reminders to call this patron back and to order that book for the next book club. I sat there thinking, “I gave so many people the right answer.” Then the next thought came, sharp as a paper cut. “Who am I when nobody needs an answer from me?”
If you are a high-functioning helper, your brain can treat quiet like danger. Your nervous system gets used to motion, to scanning, to staying one step ahead. Years ago, after Hurricane Katrina, we lived in that mode for so long that it started to feel normal. The repair years taught me to stay busy, because busy meant we were surviving.
I admit I used to think loneliness was about having nobody around. In my study, I was surrounded by a whole life, a husband in the next room, children a short drive away, a phone that would buzz if I reached for it. Loneliness still showed up. It felt like being sealed behind glass, watching my own family through a window I built.
That morning, I tried a small experiment. I put my hand flat on the desk and said out loud, “Let me think a minute.” It sounds simple and it felt awkward. I was practicing staying present with myself before I tried to manage anyone else.
Later, I did what I always do when I feel wobbly. I made a list. Only this time, I wrote down what I wanted to feel, not what I wanted to accomplish. I wrote, “connected,” “useful,” and, because I was being honest, “seen.”
2. When “brilliant” turns into a job description
There was a time when “brilliant” made me stand up straighter. At the library, it meant I could find a grant application, an ESL workbook, or a hurricane evacuation map faster than anyone else. It meant I could calm a panicked parent at the desk with a steady voice. I liked being the person who could say, “I hear you, we can do this one step at a time.”
Years ago, a coworker told me, “Elodie, your brain moves like a card catalog.” I laughed, because it sounded charming. I also heard the other message underneath. My brain was a machine people could use and I learned to keep it running smoothly.
If you get praised for being quick, you can start living like speed is love. You answer before someone finishes their sentence. You plan before anyone asks. You fix the problem before the problem has fully formed. Then one day you sit in your study and you realize people have grown used to the version of you that stays two steps ahead.
Danny jokes when he is tense and I plan when I am tense. That morning, he said, “So, what does a retired librarian do with all this free time?” and I said, “We can deep clean the pantry.” He raised his eyebrows, the same way he did in 2007 when our counselor suggested we name our feelings out loud. Danny smiled and said, “Or we can go get breakfast.”
If you have ever been “the capable one,” you might recognize the sneaky loneliness that comes with it. People admire you and they also step back from you. They assume you have it handled. Over time, you can start to feel like your best self lives in service mode and your real self waits on the sidelines.
3. My old habit: translating myself into something easier
It took me a long time to realize how often I translate myself. In the library, I translated all day long and it was a kindness. A patron would ask for something complicated and I would turn it into a simple checklist they could actually use. Somewhere along the line, I started doing that with my own feelings.
I remember when Camille was in college at UNO and she called me crying. I asked, “Did you eat?” and then I offered to drive to Mid-City with groceries. Camille said, “Mama, I need you to say you’re sorry this is happening.” My mouth opened and I felt the old impulse to hand her a solution instead of a sentence.
You can translate yourself for so long that you forget you are doing it. You swap real words for safer ones. “I miss you” becomes “How’s work?” “I’m scared” becomes “Have you checked your tire pressure?” When I do that, I sound practical and calm. Inside, I feel like I am standing on a chair trying to reach a shelf that keeps moving higher.
My friend Renee Landry, retired counselor and steady as a metronome, once told me over coffee, “Elodie, people can feel when you are editing yourself.” She said it gently, like she was handing me a folded note. I looked down at my napkin and realized I had been tearing it into perfect little squares while she talked. That is one of my tells, busy hands, quiet heart.
If you grew up with “be helpful” and “do not complain,” you may have learned to make your feelings tidy. A tidy feeling fits in a drawer. A real feeling takes up space on the kitchen table. The thing is, connection happens at the table.
That week, I tried something new with Sophie, who sends voice notes and photos like they are postcards from her day. When she texted me a picture of Marco smearing yogurt on the high chair, I sent back a plain voice note. I did not polish it. I said, “That made me laugh and I miss y’all.” Then I sat there, surprised at how relieved I felt.
4. Loneliness has a thinking style
I used to think loneliness meant you needed more social plans. Sometimes you do. Sometimes you need a different kind of attention inside your own head. Loneliness changes how you scan your world and it can make you extra alert for rejection, or for the moment somebody decides you are too much.
My neighbor, Dr. Marcus Bennett, has a way of reality-checking me without making me feel silly. One evening on Veterans Memorial Boulevard, I told him, “I feel odd and I don’t even have a reason.” He said, “Retirement is a big role shift, Elodie. Your mind is recalibrating.” He did not diagnose me. He just named the shape of the transition.
If you have ever walked into a room and felt like you were taking up the wrong amount of space, you know the mental math. You watch faces. You measure tone. You decide, in seconds, how much of yourself is allowed. That is a lonely way to live, even when people love you.
I remember a Friday at Cafe du Monde in City Park with Renee, powdered sugar everywhere, both of us pretending we were there for the coffee. She asked me, “What’s the hardest part?” and I said, “I keep hearing myself before I even speak.” Renee nodded like she had been waiting for that sentence. I felt seen and my shoulders dropped a full inch.
You can practice a different thinking style. I do it in tiny moments. I take a breath and tell myself, “That is fair,” when someone’s reaction surprises me. I remind myself that closeness can handle a little mess and that my family can handle a sentence that does not come with instructions.
5. What I learned about swallowing feelings
I admit I got good at swallowing feelings. At the library, it kept the desk calm. At home, it kept the peace. Then one day, the swallowed feelings started showing up in other ways, a tight jaw, a 3:00 a.m. wake-up, a sudden need to reorganize the pantry like it was a moral duty.
Years ago, during those 2006 and 2007 post-Katrina repair years, Danny and I could argue about a $40 hardware store run like it was a trial. He wanted spontaneity, I wanted numbers and we both wanted safety. We went to counseling in Metairie and learned to turn down the volume. I learned to say, “I hear you,” and then to pause, because pauses are where truth sneaks in.
If you keep your feelings under control, you might look “fine” on the outside while your body holds the bill. When I push down sadness or worry, I still feel it. It just travels. Sometimes it lands in my knee. Sometimes it lands in my tone, clipped and efficient, which is my least favorite version of myself.
One Sunday afternoon, during my family call window, Julian was telling a story about work in Baton Rouge. I could feel my mind building a suggestion tower, one tip on top of another. I kept my mouth closed and let him finish. When he finally paused, I said, “That sounds like a lot.” Julian let out a breath and said, “Yeah. It is.” That was it. That was the whole connection.
If you want a practical routine, here is mine. I name one feeling a day in plain words. “Worried.” “Tender.” “Irritated.” I write it on an index card and slide it back into that recipe drawer, right next to old jambalaya notes and phone numbers. It feels old-fashioned and it works.
Later, I walk Beignet and let the feeling come with me. I do not fix it on the path. I let it loosen with each step, like a knot you stop yanking on. By the time I get back to the car, I can usually speak in a voice that sounds like me.
6. The two sentences I practice when my daughter needs me
I remember the first time I tried direct emotional language with Camille. She had called, her voice thin and I could tell she wanted comfort more than a plan. My old instinct showed up fast. I pictured traffic to Mid-City, a bag from Dorignac’s, something I could hand her that proved my love.
Then I used my two sentences. I said, “I do not have a fix. I am here.” It felt like stepping onto a porch in a storm, no umbrella, just honesty. Camille got quiet, then she said, “Thank you. Can you stay on the phone?”
If you are like me, you might worry you will say the wrong thing and make it worse. Those two sentences give you a sturdy place to stand. They tell the other person they have your attention. They also tell your own brain it can stop sprinting.
Another day, Camille told me she felt like she was failing at everything. I wanted to list evidence against it. Instead, I said, “That sounds heavy and I love you.” I could almost hear my younger self gasp. Then I heard Camille’s breath change, like a tight belt loosening.
You can practice these lines when the stakes are low. Try them with a friend, or even with yourself. Stand in your kitchen, look at the magnet clip holding your lists and say, “I am here.” Your body listens to your words, even when your mind argues.
7. Receptive listening at my kitchen counter
My kitchen counter has seen every version of me. The efficient librarian with a pen behind her ear. The mother with a casserole plan. The wife counting hurricane supplies. These days, it is where I practice receptive listening, which sounds fancy until you try it and realize it mostly means shutting up with love.
I remember when Sophie called from Houston Heights and launched into a story about Marco climbing onto the coffee table like it was a stage. I started laughing, then I started advising. Sophie paused and said, “Mama, I just wanted you to hear it.” I looked at the counter, at the coffee ring on an old note and I felt the familiar shame script rise, I said too much.
The thing is, you can repair in real time. I said, “I hear you. Tell me more.” Sophie’s voice softened. She added details, the kind you only share when you feel safe, how tired she was, how she felt like she was always behind. I did not offer a solution. I asked, “What would feel like relief today?”
If you want a simple structure, try this: reflect, validate, ask. Reflect means you repeat the heart of what you heard. Validate means you treat their feeling as real and understandable. Ask means you invite their next thought instead of steering it.
Last month, Patricia Gomez and I met at East Bank Regional “just to browse,” which is librarian code for talking about life between the stacks. I told her I was learning to listen without fixing. Patricia smiled and said, “That might be your hardest reference question yet.” I laughed, because she was right and because it felt good to be a beginner at something.
At home, Danny has noticed the change too. When he suggests a spur-of-the-moment road trip, I still feel my budget brain light up. Now I say, “Let me think a minute.” Then I ask him what he wants from the trip, rest, novelty, a good dinner. We end up on the same page more often and the page feels roomy.
8. A small routine that keeps me from disappearing
It took me a while to see that I needed a routine for closeness the way I need a routine for groceries. The danger for me is drifting into “background noise,” present but distant, helpful but unreachable. So I built one small habit that feels like a handrail.
On Sundays, late afternoon, I do my family call window and a calendar reset. I sit in my reading chair with my glasses on the coaster and my phone in my hand and I call one person first, then I text the others. I keep it short. I keep it real. I try to include one feeling word, even if it tastes strange in my mouth.
Years ago, I started “Library Saturday” with my grandkids, one-on-one outings with the rule that my phone stays in my bag except for one photo. That tradition became my secret teacher. When you walk the children’s section with Lucie, who asks exacting follow-up questions, you learn to slow down. When you chase Theo, who lives at full volume, you learn to stay present. When Ava draws what she sees, you remember that attention is love in pencil form.
Sometimes, when the house gets too quiet, I drive to the Sydney and Walda Besthoff Sculpture Garden and sit without a plan. I used to think an unplanned hour was wasted. Now I treat it like a refill. I watch the light move and I let my thoughts arrive without assigning them chores.
If you are looking for a takeaway you can actually use, here is mine. Choose one routine that signals, “I am here,” and do it even when you feel awkward. Connection grows from repetition. It grows from your steady return, like a familiar footstep on a familiar porch.
Note from Cottonwood Psychology:
At Cottonwood Psychology, we let real authors share their real-life stories and struggles and we explain how these psychological concepts affect us in daily life.
- Social connection affects health in measurable ways. Researchers Julianne Holt-Lunstad, Timothy B. Smith, Mark Baker, Tyler Harris and David Stephenson wrote, “Actual and perceived social isolation are both associated with increased risk for early mortality.” You can treat that as motivation to build steady contact points, especially during life transitions like retirement. See the meta-analysis here: PubMed record.
- Loneliness shapes attention and thinking, which can make everyday interactions feel heavier. John T. Cacioppo and Louise C. Hawkley wrote, “Research indicates that perceived social isolation (i.e., loneliness) is a risk factor for and may contribute to, poorer overall cognitive performance,” This helps explain why a quiet house can feel mentally loud and why small routines can calm the mind by restoring a sense of belonging. Read the full review here: PMC full text.
- “Swallowing feelings” often looks calm on the outside and stays active on the inside. James J. Gross summarized research showing that “suppression decreases behavioral expression, but fails to decrease emotion experience and actually impairs memory.” In daily life, this can show up as forgetfulness, irritability, or feeling disconnected during conversations because so much effort goes into self-editing. Source: PubMed record.
- Listening skills can act like emotional support in real time, especially in close relationships. Sarah A. Walker, Rebecca T. Pinkus, Sally Olderbak and Carolyn MacCann found relationship satisfaction had “the strongest associations for valuing (r = .43), humor (r = .33) and receptive listening (r = .27).” That supports simple practices like reflecting what you heard, validating feelings and asking one open question before offering advice. Source: PubMed record.
- Role changes, like leaving a long career, can pull away built-in daily connection. The psychological skill here involves rebuilding “micro-connection” on purpose, short calls, short texts, predictable meetups and shared tasks. Over time, these repetitions help the mind interpret the world as safer and more supportive, which makes it easier to speak in a more direct, emotionally plainspoken way.
- Many people who earned praise for competence learn a “helpful” communication style that leans on advice, logistics and solutions. You can widen that style by adding brief emotional statements, for example, “I’m here,” or “That sounds heavy,” which invites closeness without requiring you to perform. This pairs well with receptive listening and reduces the need for suppression, which Gross’s work connects with ongoing internal emotional load.